


House in the Wood

by CommonEvilMastermind



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Inspired By Over The Garden Wall, datrickntreat, dragon age x over the garden wall, for ktfrancebee, happy all hallows, slightly spoopy, starring lanyla lavellan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-31
Updated: 2016-10-31
Packaged: 2018-08-28 04:39:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8432164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CommonEvilMastermind/pseuds/CommonEvilMastermind
Summary: Lanyla Lavellan finds a house in the wood where a young Solas labors for a frightening spirit. Nothing is as it seems.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Halloween 2016's DA Trick 'n Treat! This is for ktfrancebee, featuring her Inquisitor, Lanyla Lavellan. I hope I did her justice!

She awoke in a place where she had not gone to sleep. Not that sleeping had been a part of the plan for this night, not truly, this brilliant autumn night under the Hunter’s Moon. No. The wind had been playing a wild dance upon the boughs of the ancient trees, and the leaves were swept along to the rattling beat, the branches clacking in the wind. The air was like a storm, reaching under her skin, bringing her along until her heartbeat matched the rhythm and her breath echoed through in counterpoint. Though the windows were shut and the doors of the aravel locked tight, she heard the forest, wild and woken and calling, calling, under her skin like an itch, itching and the moonlight staining soft furs an iridescent silver.

The window, normally a heavy, stubborn thing, leapt open at the slightest push of her hand. And perhaps it was a pity that children have so many rules. Any observer might say that, between the rules about what to wear and where to go and at what volume one might say one’s prayers, certain things get lost, left behind, lessened and forgotten under the sheer weight of numbers. Yet our readers will soon learn, some rules exist for a reason. Perhaps it is not so great a sin to slip out of your covers in the middle of the night to watch the Hunter’s Moon rise over the ancient trees. Perhaps there is no real danger to lifting the window sash, letting the wild wind dance and play within the packed confines of the old aravel. But as the elf (not truly a girl any longer, yet not quite a young woman) slipped out of the window, there was one rule she ignored completely, a rule that mattered quite a lot.

Do not go into the woods at night.

There is no telling what you will find.

She was not the first to go into the forest, nor shall she be the last. There are always those that believe their only hope lies tucked in the darkened valleys and shaded hillsides of the wood, where unknown things still live and laugh and linger. Some of these travelers are fleeing _from_ – starvation, abuse, a murderous step-parent - perhaps all three. And some are fleeing _to_ – there are grandmothers who live in the woods, and hidden castles full of fortune, and magical gardens that bloom in the dark, gardens that offer wealth, health, fertility, love – although the astute observer will notice that the women who tend such gardens often possess none of these qualities themselves. There are stories in the woods, and songs left unsung, and the doors to the land of the Good Folk where you dance until your feet are bone and all that is left is dust. Yes, there are many things in the wood, and many reasons to travel there. But, for all that come back out again, there are a hundred tales left rotting under the carpet of leaves and stones. And if, by chance, you are one of the lucky few who live to see the sunlight, I promise you this – never again will you be quite the same.

And so let us learn a little more about this creature as she slips away from her camp, before she stumbles headfirst into our story. She is a pretty thing on the crest of adolescence, and her bones say she will one day be beautiful. One day, in a different place, there will be other stories told of her – of shining copper hair and far-seeing blue eyes, of love and heartbreak and scars on our skin and the burdens of an Inquisition. One day, in a different place, the spirits will spark emerald in the palm of her hand. One day, in a different place, there will be a different story – but that is not today. Today she is a girl-almost-woman and she follows the wind deep into the forest, where no wise Keeper dares to walk. And her name is Lanyla, of the clan Lavellan.

Lanyla awakes in a place that she does not know, staring up at the night behind the rattling branches. There are no stars – the moon blots them out, staining the ground bone-white, draining all color from the carpet of dead leaves. If there were stars, perhaps, she would know the way home - or if the moon would sink down where it hang at the perfect apex of the sky. The wind, which had called to her so playfully from the aravel, now whips along the ground, chills her bare feet, and sinks cold fingers through the weave of her thin sleeping clothes. This is no place to linger.

There are paths in the wood, as steadfast as the winter’s wind, and Lanyla finds herself on one of these. It stretches forward like a river and the bright moonlight casts shadows of things that seem more than simple branches hanging from the trees. And yet it was a path, and paths are things for a journey, patterns worn through a place that link one something to another. If so, the path is the surest way to find a tavern or a town or the way back to her clan. The paths of the wood, though having minds of their own, do not dare to deviate from their purpose too greatly. Follow one, and you are bound find something eventually, as Lanyla does. Though she walks for hours, the moon does not dip closer to the horizon, nor do the stars come out to guide her way. But just as the young elf begins to fear that her toes will turn white from the bitter wind, she sees something in the distance, pale and white in the heavy gaze of the Hunter’s Moon. It is a ramshackle cabin, listing heavily to one side, and the windows are as dark as the Void.

A shelter, abandoned. The floor inside is splintered, heavy with leaves and dust, and the door hangs crooked in its frame. Barrels and crates stand, silent sentinels along the mud-daubed walls, and, at the far end, a grate and a hearth and cold, dead ashes. A shelter, to rest until morning. She spends only as much time as she must outside, gathering leaves, then twigs, then sticks. Next to the hearth is a pile of logs and a flint that produces sparks after heavy persuasion. She bullies the door back into its frame so the wind will not creep its long fingers into her fire.

The hearth lights easily, as if happy to hold a flame. The small yellow tongues of fire lick cheerfully at the kindling, first the leaves, then the twigs, then the sticks, until even the logs are glowing sweetly, cherry-red embers flickering their soft shadows along the walls. Lanyla curls up, watching the patterns of fire and ash dance, soothing.

Then the door crashes open, and the cold wind snaps into the cozy confines of the cabin. “What are you doing?!” comes a shocking shout, a wail that whips throughout the room. “You need to leave here, now!”

It’s a jolt. A live shock. There is a man in the doorway, a boy, no, a man, and his eyes are blue, blown wide. “Leave!” he hisses, panicked. “She is coming!”

“What?” she shakes awake. “What-?”

“Leave!” His hair, brown, whips wild. “Leave! She-”

_Da’Fen,_ comes a voice. It skips her brain. Shoots down her spine. _Where is my little wolf?_

“Hide,” the man chokes.

Lanyla sucks in a breath and looks around. Hearth. Stairs. Crate – closed. Barrel.

Barrel.

She dives and the stink of it makes her gag, overwhelming. The wood is rancid, twisted and oily. She learns why. Clunk of a bucket and eels – slippering, slimy, writhing over her hair, against her skin, spilling into the barrel. She muffles a shriek, bites her lip so hard she tastes coppery blood. The eels thrash all around her. She wants out, she wants out, she wants out-

“Little wolf, little wolf, who has been here today?” There are footsteps, she can feel them through her toes, pressed against the slick bottom of the barrel. There are footsteps and the voice – like smoke, like gravel, like a coming landslide.

“No one, Aunt,” the man says smoothly, and the soft scrape scrape of broom bristle against wood floor.

“No one?” says the voice, says the Aunt. “No one to be eaten tonight?”

“No, Aunt,” says the man.

“No new bones to be sorted into the piles?”

“No, Aunt. It has been only me.”

There’s a swoop of old fabric, and the eels writhe. “Do not lie to me, my wolf,” the thing says. “I can smell them. Sweet, stinking things. Where are they hiding?”

“There is no one here,” he protests.

“Tell me,” the voice presses.

“No one- ”

“Tell me, little wolf _,”_ says the voice, and there’s a sound like tiny snowflakes ringing crystal against glass. “The power of the bell commands you.”

“I-” the man chokes, stiffens. Then, soft and calm, “Look in the barrel, Aunt.”

“There,” the voice soothes, “That wasn’t so hard.” Lanyla feels the floor tremble under huge feet, can almost taste the iron of a heavy gaze, peering down, seeing-

“Oh!” says the voice, close enough to touch. “You meant that the eels are so wonderfully rancid, is that it? Is that the thing I smell?”

“Of course,” the man says smoothly.

“You’re a good boy,” the voice says, sticky sweet. And there’s a sound, a slurping sound, such as a person would make if they were inhaling an eel like it was a huge, rotting, writhing, noodle. “I am to bed. Sort the bones, my wolf.”

“It is already done, Aunt.”

“Such a good wolf,” croons the voice. “Sweep the floor ‘til it shines, ma’fen. The power of the bell commands you.” And again, the sound, like snowflakes softly ringing against glass.

“Yes,” the man says, and his voice is flat and lifeless. “Yes.”

“A good wolf,” says the voice. Then, slowly, heavy footfalls on wood. Up a set of stairs. One foot, then the other, fading into the distance.

When they recede fully, she tenses, waiting, but it is another hundred years before there comes a soft rapping on the side of the barrel. Lanyla thrashes to the surface, gasping for fresh air, flailing out of the sea of writhing eels, out of the awful barrel. The man catches her before she can crash, bringing her gently to the dusty floor. She draws in a breath, shaking, shaking. Then, violently, she fishes an eel from the front of her tunic and chucks it, hard, against a wall. The eel thrashes angrily as the man grabs it, tosses it back in the barrel with a casual motion. She is rancid slime entirely – it plasters her hair to her skull, her clothes to her body, up her nostrils and between each toe. She-

“Here,” says the man, and he’s holding a damp rag. She looks up and up and up – he’s tall – before she meets his eyes, deep and cool, like a lake in the autumn rain.

“Thank you,” she says, almost moans, gratefully. It’s not enough, but the harsh fabric rasps against her face, her hands, taking off the slime as well as several layers of skin. “Thank you.”

“You should leave,” the man says, not looking at her. He’s sweeping with an old twig broom, scraping it along the dusty floor.

“Who was that?” she asks slowly.

“You should leave,” he says again, soft, but his voice is iron.

“Who are you?” she says.

“You. Should. Leave.”

She blinks, takes a breath. “Are you… trapped here?”

He’s a broad-shouldered wall in a ragged shirt, stiff with No Comment.

She chews her lip, glances at the door. Glances at him. Then, softly, she tries one last time: “What’s your name?”

Something in the wall gives, a softened slump to his shoulders. “Solas,” he says. “My name is Solas.”

“Solas.” The word is sweet in her mouth. “I’m Lanyla.” Something ripples through him, almost a flinch, and he continues to avoid her gaze. “Solas,” she says, “Are you trapped here?”

He does not answer, which is answer enough.

“That woman,” she says slowly. “The bell…”

“I am bound to it.” Each word is a stone, dragged up from the deeps.

“You _are_ trapped here.” It’s not even a conscious decision, what she says next. “Come with me.”

Solas freezes.

“Come with me,” she urges, “Let’s go, let’s escape together, while she’s asleep-”

“She has given me a task,” Solas says, iron in his voice. “She will wake before I finish and she will give me another. And another. She means to- ”

“I’ll help.” She holds the slimy rag in her fist, determined. “We’ll do it together, finish in half the time-”

“No!” he says, a whisper that’s almost a shout. “You will be eaten, as the others were, and I will sort your bones into piles come morning.”

“How long have you been here?” Lanyla challenges, voice rising. “How long-?”

“Hush!” Solas hisses, “She will wake!”

“Sorry, sorry!” she whispers, scrambling. Takes another road. “You shouldn’t have to stay here. I want to help you.”

“Why?” The question drops like a pebble into silence.

She licks her lips, which are suddenly dry. “Everyone deserves to be free,” she says.

“I-” he stares at her, something in his eyes. Then, “No,” he says. And more firmly, “No.”

She puts her hands on her hips, watching him as he turns back to his sweeping. Then she crosses over, throws open the warped door, marches outside. There’s an old bucket without a handle leaning in a pile of junk – she scoops it up and fills it with murky, freezing water from a half-rotten water barrel. Then she marches back into the house.

The bucket leaks, water soaking down her chest, the front of her leggings. No matter. She sets it on the floor and dunks her slime-covered rag in, fingers going numb from the cold. But the rag gets wet, and she begins to scrub.

 “Why are you doing this?” Solas snaps at the bottom of his breath. “Leave, now, or-”

“We were slaves, once,” she says mildly. “Our people. Many still are. Orlais, Ferelden, Antiva. Tevinter. Not me.” She taps her forehead where Mythal’s tree branches proudly. “The Dalish, we’re free. Never again shall we submit.” She meets his gaze, cannot name the emotions there.

“We were all slaves, once,” she says softly.

Solas jerks away, leaves his broom and walks over to stare, soundlessly, into the fire. There’s no sound but the rasp of cloth on wood, and the rumbling thunder of snores that roll down the stairs at the far end of the cottage.

She puts down her cloth and goes to him and dares, dares without thinking, to reach out and brush his arm.

The sound he makes is soft, unintentional. He closes his eyes. He does not pull away, and his skin is warm under her hand. “Perhaps,” he says, and the word cracks on his lips. “Perhaps this time shall be different.”

“Yes,” she tells him firmly. “Yes.”

It almost works.

They clean for hours. Her hands and knees are red, chapped, aching. She smiles fiercely and scrubs with a frenzy.

He sweeps, dust flying. Sometimes across the room, sometimes close. Close enough to touch. Close enough to feel the warmth of his skin. He smells of wood smoke and dust and some dark, wild thing that has no name.

She likes it when he is close.

“Do you have family?” she asks.

His broom slows. “No.”

“You can join mine,” she offers lightly. “Clan Lavellan. They’ll like you.”

“Will they?” he asks, and she senses the weight in the airy question.

“Yes,” she says. “I like you. They will too.”

“Do you?”

“Yes,” she tells him, and she means it. “I do.”

He turns away, but not before she sees the expression on his face. It makes her scrub even faster.

So it almost works, their plan.

She actually finishes, stands up quickly, close to him. Too close. Close enough to feel his breath, close enough to touch. Close enough to kiss. Time is reduced to heartbeats. Too close. She-

He steps back, suddenly. Too sudden. Trips over the bucket, falls down with a crash.

For a moment, not a sound.

 

 

 

 

 

“SOLAS!” The voice, screeching, high, panicked. “WOLF!”

“Run!”

They bolt. She slams the door behind. Stops. Jams the handle – old chair, under the knob.

Crash from the other side. “Wolf!” A screech. “Stop! Don’t!” The voice wails. If the bell is ringing, Lanyla cannot hear it. They are free.

“Solas, run!” Lanyla snaps, seeing him. “Run!” She grabs his hand-

His hand-

His hand is cold.

Too cold.

Hand is cold and-

There are too many joints in the fingers of his twisted hand.

“S-Solas?”

He turns. Eyes sunk. Mouth too wide. Teeth too long.

“RUN CHILD!”

The voice, Aunt, screaming from indoors.

“RUN!”

She pulls away. His nails are too sharp, hot sting, draw blood, long scratches down her arm.

He licks his bloody fingers, smiling.

Lanyla runs.

Not fast. Not far.

Behind her, hunter’s scream.

Running in the mist. She does not see it. A swamp. Mud. Mud to her knees.

He come. Sure as death. Twisted, grinning, glowing green. Too many teeth. Mouth too wide.

He will eat her.

He will sort her bones.

“GIRL!”

From the hut, still so close. Shape in an upstairs window. “GIRL! CATCH!”

Silver arch through the mist.

A sound like snowflakes on glass.

She lunges.

Miss.

Reach, fall, scramble.

Icy mud.

Hot pain – her foot. He has her foot.

Reach-

Silver smooth.

“Spirit, stop!” She screams, a last, desperate wail. “The power of the bell commands you!”

Snowflakes on glass.

And it-

he-

freezes.

She scrambles upright. Pain in her foot. Rings the bell as hard as she can, mud flying. “Spirit!” she shouts. “Spirit, leave! Let Solas go, never come back, never bother us again.”

Whipping wind, it – he – screams, an ungodly scream.

“The power of the bell commands you!”

He – it – shrieks, buckles, writhing in pain. The green light rises like a sick cloud, forms a face, a snarling wolf face with sunken eyes and teeth too long. It wails in fury, twists, rising-

And it is gone.

It’s gone.

The spirit is gone

there’s a pale body lying on the ground.

_No-_

She wrenches herself out of the mud, the taste of dread in her mouth. No, no, no. His face, his face is still and calm and her fingers are cold, cold and numb, she cannot find his pulse, her fingers are too numb, is he- is he breathing? Is he-?

“Oh,” someone breathes. “My poor boy.” And it’s her, it’s the voice, it’s the Aunt, and she’s old and fat and twisted with age- but her eyes are soft, warm and brown, and the wrinkles lie kindly on her face. “My poor little wolf.” And the woman picks him up as if he were a small child, cradling him in her arms, and carries him back into the hut.

Lanyla follows, numb, numb everywhere.

Aunt lays Solas in front of the fire, as tenderly as any mother. “Girl,” she says, and her voice is low. “Fetch the blankets from upstairs, girl.”

She scrambles to obey. Up the stairs is a tiny loft with two beds, both piled high with blankets. She strips them both. The larger one is clearly Aunt’s. The smaller one, a cot, tucked by the chimney, still smells of wood smoke and dust and something wild-

Lanyla gathers all the blankets and does not trip on the way back down.

“That’s a girl.” Aunt covers Solas gently, tucks a folded blanket behind his head.

He lies so still. She watches his chest, cannot tell if it rises and falls.

“Will he die?” she whispers.

“I know not, child,” Aunt says, waving a crabbed hand towards a low stool. Lanyla fetches it without further prompting. The wood groans as Aunt settles her weight down.

Lanyla stands, her weight off of her injured foot.

“He has been bound to that spirit for years beyond your imagining. I do not know if he can live without it.” The woman closed her eyes, let out a long breath. “We will have to wait.”

“I’m sorry,” Lanyla murmured, the words choking her throat. “I’m sorry. I didn’t-”

“Hush, child,” Aunt says, and it is not unkind. “He is free, now.”

She sinks to her knees, daring, daring to lay a hand on the pile of blankets. “How did it happen?”

“A punishment,” and Aunt’s voice drops low. “A parting curse from the ones you call your gods.”

“A punishment?” Lanyla blinks. “I don’t-”

Aunt snorts, an indelicate sound. “This is the Dread Wolf, child. He built the Veil. Imprisoned the gods. He freed your people and in return, his soul was bound to that… thing.”

“I don’t understand,” she says, lost.

Aunt’s eyes soften, though they do not leave Solas’ face. “I know, child. I know.”

They sit together in silence and maybe, maybe the blankets are rising and falling, maybe, just a little.

They add more wood to the fire.

Outside, a single bird starts to sing.

Aunt takes one of the spare blankets – a thin, ratty one, and tears it effortlessly into thick strips. “Here,” she says.

Lanyla blinks. “What-?”

“You are bleeding all over my clean floor,” Aunt says, and perhaps there’s a little laugh under her dry voice. And Lanyla is, her foot is pierced, her arm raked with claw marks. She winds the old blanket around her wounds, which grow warm. She can taste the hot iron of strong, strong magic.

“Who are you, Aunt?” Lanyla wonders, resisting the urge to peek under the bandages.

“I am Solas’ friend,” the old woman says softly. “A spirit, to help him against the monster to which he was bound.”

“A spirit?” Lanyla blinked. “Of… of peace? Of protection? Of aunts?”

Aunt snorts. “A spirit of Wisdom, child.”

“Oh.” She falls silent, wraps her arms around her knees. “Aunt Wisdom?”

“Hmm?”

“I hope I didn’t kill him.” This confession is whispered, almost silent.

“As do I, little one,” Aunt says, and a gnarled hand rests on top of Lanyla’s hair. “As do I.”

Time does not pass as we know it, not deep within the woods. But there came a time – perhaps hours later, perhaps it was longer than that – when the fallen god shifted under his blankets, opened his eyes, and saw pale morning sunlight drifting through the walls of the hut. Wisdom, watching, gave him a warm smile, bushed his hair back from his head. She did not speak, and this is why: A young woman lay next to the Dread Wolf, curled up on the shining wooden floor. Her eyelashes fluttered, deep in sleep. But even as she dreamed, she had reached over. She slept. And she held Solas’ hand tightly in her own.

~*~

“You’re staying,” Lanyla says, and it’s not a question.

Solas straightens, slowly, from the hearth. He has not yet regained his strength. “Yes,” he says simply. “Aunt-”

Lanyla shakes her head, cutting him off. “No, I, I get it. I do. It’s family.”

“You’re leaving,” Solas says, and it’s not a question.

“Yeah,” Lanyla grins. “It’s family. They’re probably out of their minds with worry-”

“I understand,” Solas cuts her off. “I do.”

She smiles up at him, feeling stupid, feeling sad. Then she dares, without thinking, she dares – she lifts herself on her tiptoes and presses her lips against his.

Her first kiss.

It is not much of a kiss. He’s frozen, stone.

She’s messed this up too.

Lanyla gives him a stupid smile and turns, cursing herself silently. She doesn’t get a step away before there’s a hand on her arm and he-

oh

That is a much better kiss.

She’s breathless when they break apart, pulls in a deep breath. Oh.

“Clan Lavellan,” she says firmly. “Don’t forget.”

“I could not,” he says with the weight of a vow. “I will find you.” He takes her hand, softly kisses her palm. The warmth goes all the way to the end of her spine.

“Right.” And thankfully (not thankfully) Aunt appears in the doorway so there can be no more kissing, lips or palms or otherwise.

“Follow the path, child,” Aunt says. “It will lead you straight home.”

“Yes, Aunt.” She throws her arms around the old spirit, as much as she can encompass. “Thank you.”

“Thank you, child,” Aunt says softly. “Our Lanyla.”

“Yes.” And she leaves while she still can, leaves the man and the spirit in the old hut in the woods and returns to her clan and her family, her brother, her life. But that is not the end to the story. Lanyla always has an eye out to the forest, watching for any who might wander her way. And on the nights when the hunter’s full moon stains silver on the ground, she builds the camp fire as high and as bright as she can, until it can be seen for miles and miles in any direction.

Just to help him find his way home.


End file.
